The Martin Boys

Yesterday, I received an email from my cousin telling me the last of my mother’s surviving brothers are gravely ill. My uncle Joe, Charlie, and Cliff are three of seven brothers in my mom’s family. She was the eldest, then came Earl, who we called Abe, Howard, called Fat, Herbert, called Hub, Robert, called Rob, Charles, called Charlie, Clifford, called Cliff, and Joseph, called Joe. Following all those brothers was my mother’s only sister, Matilda, called Til or Tillie. They never went by their given names, not even my mother. Her name was Hildegard, but understandably, she was always called Hilda. Only my grandmother used their real names. When she started to call for one of them because he was in trouble, she would always go through all seven names before she hit on the one she wanted. Of course, the guilty boy would not own up until she said his name.

When the Martin boys got together they all talked at the top of their voices and all at the same time. They loved eating, drinking, and having fun. They particularly liked my mom’s fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits. They all proclaimed she was the best cook in the county, stuffing down biscuits until they nearly popped. They cussed and told dirty jokes, smoked like chimneys, brawled and landed in jail more often than I should reveal here.

All but one of them served in the army during WWII. Fortunately, they all came home and none was wounded, at least not physically. All but one got married during the late ‘40s. I recall their wedding photos were all similar, consisting of the brothers; the only difference being the bride, and which brother was the groom.

They all lived in Ohio within 25 miles of each other. They worked at the Gulf Refinery, for the county, or farmed for a living. When the first one died, my mother said, “The circle (of her siblings) has been broken.” Slowly, they began to pass away of cancer caused by cigarette smoking or asbestos exposure at the refinery or other hazards of living. Now, the last three are all battling cancer as well, with only weeks to live.

It is hard to think of them all eventually being gone, leaving behind their baby sister who is nearing eighty. They were good old boys in the best meaning of the phrase. I wasn’t around them much after I grew up. I left Ohio when I was twenty, but I hope they knew how much I loved them.

Dabby's Rose Bush

Several years ago, my hairdresser moved to a house that had a gazillion old, well established rose bushes. When she inexplicably decided to get rid of most of them, she invited all her friends and clientele to come and dig up anything they wanted. I was there in a heartbeat. I dug up four rose bushes before I exhausted myself, one of which turned out to be the rose bush that enveloped and smothered Turlock.

Other than climbing, I don’t know what variety it is, but it has white blooms similar to the one in the photo. I planted it along the side of our house where it climbs onto the inner courtyard fence. The rose bush currently stretches across about 20 feet of the fence. If we did not have it trimmed every week, it would literally grow up over the roof of the house, across to the neighbors, down the street, eventually growing out to the highway where motorists would need James Bond type machetes on their cars to clear a path around town. Unfortunately, the trimming inhibits blooming, but the bush has become a very effective shield from the street on that side of the house.

It is a great refuge for small birds, so I put a feeder in it to encourage them to visit. The window that looks out onto the bush is my kitty‘s favorite place to watch them. Every morning, not even letting me get a cup of coffee, Teddy yells and carries on until I follow him into the room and open the blinds so he can begin his vigil. He gets up on the windowsill and yeows at the top of his lungs. I tell him to use his indoor meow, so he doesn’t scare the birds away. He won’t listen to me though; he has to tell those birds a thing or two. The rose bush has little openings where the birds can peer through at Teddy, thumbing their beaks at him because they know he is strictly an indoor cat. They do tweet a little different tune when the weather is warm enough to open the windows. Then they are a little more polite when he appears, not quite trusting the screens to hold back that ferocious tabby.

I am very proud of my town-devouring rose bush. Being from Ohio, where growing roses requires way too much effort, it is amazing to me that roses flourish like weeds here. I have roses all around my house, something I never imagined I could have. All they need is water and lots of sun and they bloom right through to Christmas. I will always marvel at that.

If you ever drive through the Central Valley of California, down Highway 99, be sure to bring your machete.

Purses, Bags, and Totes, Oh My…

I love purses and own more than I care to confess here. The last few years I have tended to buy the “organizer” type bags. Organizer bags don’t require a wallet for credit cards and money. They have several slots for credit cards, zippered pockets for change, a pocket for a cell phone, and other sections for makeup, a small notebook and calendar. I carry hand sanitizer, baby wipes, and Kleenex in the most accessible pocket, things I need to get to quickly for the grandkids. The other compartments and pockets hold lipstick, mirror, aspirin in case I start to have a heart attack, toothpicks, travel size toothpaste and brush, nail clippers, sunglasses, and pens. Yeah, I was a girl scout, learned to be prepared.

My four year-old granddaughter loves to dig through my purse. First, she goes for my cell phone and makes several international calls before I notice. She also changes settings and erases contacts, but that’s usually for the best. She then takes a piece of my “mean” gum. It is mean because it is very strong peppermint, which she doesn’t like and spits out in my hand immediately. In fact, the first time she tried it, she cried. I can never convince her it is not the sweet gum she likes.

Next, she tries on my lipstick, insists on applying it herself. (Ah, just a little crooked, honey.) She makes notes on my calendar, little scribbles on every page, jots things on my grocery list, and tries my lip-gloss, which is really just a little container of Mentholatum, which she does like. Finally, she gets to the little surprise I try to keep in my purse for her. A couple Hershey kisses or special dark chocolate miniatures, which ruins her dinner. Grammie is a hopeless spoiler, but it is amazing how just one little piece of candy can fill her up so she won’t eat the delicious meal her momma makes.

I bought a new bag yesterday and have been arranging and rearranging all my stuff in it. I haven’t taken it out shopping yet; that will be the test of how I ultimately like it. Since I am instilling in my granddaughter the love of purses, I can’t wait for her to check this new one out. And, the first thing I will buy while carrying this new bag will be candy for the “little surprise in Grammie’s purse.”